Don't Fail Me Now (6 page)

“I'm sorry,” he sputters. “This was a mistake.”

“
Next!
” I yell, louder than necessary, and the pregnant lady pushes past a stricken-looking Tim to get her chalupa fix. My heart racing, my tongue going numb, I punch in her order and then call in a trainee to take over for me, nearly falling onto a hot stove in my rush to get to the back door before my knees buckle.

Outside, I stumble over to Hellmouth and crumple at its graffiti-covered base, taking in desperate lungsful of warm, pungent air. It's not news that Buck has another daughter. I already knew that part, although since I didn't know her name or where she lived, the sudden fact of her actual existence and proximity is shocking. This girl—
Leah
—she's the reason he left. Or that Mom kicked him out. I was never really clear on the specifics. I just know Buck was caught, Jerry Springer–style, with a secret family and that for whatever reason, he chose them over us. What bothers me is that Mom always
made it sound like they moved away. But if this girl—
Leah
—is from around here, does that mean Buck is here, too? That he's been here all these years, close enough for me to pass him on the highway or stand next to him at a grocery store without even knowing? That's the part that feels like a sucker punch. I can deal with him dying, but I can't handle the thought that he might have been living right around the corner all these years.

I hear footsteps on the asphalt and look up to see Tim coming around the corner of the building. He's in a flannel shirt, jeans, and some brown shoes that look like a nerdy version of Timberlands—not as preppy as I first pegged him. A little more hipster but with a conservative haircut and a clean shave. Not that this makes me loathe him any less.

“Leave me alone,” I say, jumping to my feet. “I'm still on shift. I was just getting some air.”

“Please just give me one minute,” he says, taking a hesitant step toward me. “I should never have ambushed you like that. I'm really sorry, I was just afraid that if I didn't talk to you in there, I wouldn't get another chance.”

“Look, I don't care who your sister is,” I say. “Buck left a long time ago, and as far as I'm concerned he's already dead. So, you know, go ahead and make the funeral arrangements without me.” I know it sounds cold, but it's true. I've moved past the point of wanting closure with my father. He obviously never wanted it with me. What could I possibly owe him now? A bunch of stiff, ugly orchids to stick in some sad funeral home?
Sorry you sucked so much as a father, but here is $80 worth of flowers that will wither and die even faster than our relationship!

“It's not about arrangements,” Tim says, shifting uncomfortably. “It's . . . he says he wants to see you.”

“Fuck you.” The words come out so blunt and angry that Tim takes a step back like I might try to hit him. I look down at the pavement, feeling guilty but livid at the same time.

“I don't blame you for shooting the messenger,” Tim says. “But he says he has something for you. Some heirloom.”

I lift my eyes up to the half moon, breathing hard out my nostrils, trying to parse what's happening into some kind of sense. What kind of sick cosmic joke is this that on the day I hit financial rock bottom, Buck reappears on his deathbed with a surprise windfall? That's the kind of shit that happens to some perky actress in some stupid romantic comedy, not to me, in real life, next to a Taco Bell dumpster.

“What is it?” I ask, hating myself a little bit for even caring.

“I don't know,” Tim says. “But according to Karen, he says it's worth a lot.”

Worth a lot
. Right. Unlike Buck's word. And who the hell is Karen? I narrow my eyes at Tim.

“Is this some kind of scam?” I ask. “I thought you said her name was—”
Leah.
But before I can say them, the two syllables get stuck in the back of my throat, blocking my windpipe. “
Different
,” I cough. It's only just now dawning on me that this guy could be crazy, some random stalker. Aren't most serial killers nice-looking white boys? I take a step toward the kitchen door, deciding that if he comes any closer I'm going to book it.

But he stays put, frowning apologetically. “Sorry,” he says. “I should have explained. Karen is my stepmom, Leah's mom. She married my dad three years ago.”

It's still not adding up. “Why didn't Leah”—her name is coppery in my mouth like a new penny—“just call me?” I ask.

Tim shoves his hands in his back pockets and stares off into the highway traffic, avoiding my eyes. “She doesn't know I'm here,” he says. “But I know—I mean, I think—” He clears his throat, another telltale sign that he's about to feed me a lie. “I just think if it was my mom I'd want to know in person. I wanted to do the right thing.”

“Nope, try again.” I cross my arms and stare him down.

“What?” He still won't look at me.

“You don't care that I won the Dying-Dad Lottery,” I say. “You could have Facebook messaged me for that. Saved yourself the trouble. So do you want to tell me why you're really here, or can I go back to work now?”

“Okay, fine,” Tim says with a sigh. “I guess I just need your help. Leah's been really messed up about it. She was the one who picked up the phone, and I guess . . . it didn't really go well.”

“No shit,” I say under my breath.

“Anyway,” he says, “Karen thinks maybe she should go visit him before, you know, before he passes.”

“Look,” I say, softening my tone slightly. “I'm sorry she's having a hard time, but I still don't get what this has to do with me.”

Tim shrugs. “I thought maybe you could talk to her, convince her that it's in her best interest . . .”

“Why would she listen to me?” I ask. “She doesn't need me. You said yourself she doesn't even know you came.”

“Right,” Tim says—but not in throwaway agreement, more like he's reminding himself to stick to his story. And sure enough, within seconds his eyes dart over to an SUV parked in the back corner of the lot, in the shadow between two
streetlamps. Even in the dark I can see there's someone in the car, hunched in the front passenger seat.

“So she's here.” The words sound hollow coming out, the opposite of the nauseating maelstrom of excitement and fear flooding my veins. “What, is she waiting for a formal invitation?” I try to laugh, but no sound comes out.

“She got scared,” Tim says.

“Poor baby,” I snap.

“Hey.” For the first time I see anger flash across his face. “She's been through a lot, too.”

“Well, get her out. We can compare notes.” I can see Yvonne peering through the kitchen door, making a
what-the-hell?
face at me. If this gets me in trouble, I swear I'll go Schwarzenegger on Tim's J. Crew ass.

“She's not ready now,” he says. “But she will be. I know you can help her.”

“I doubt it.”

“Michelle—” Tim pleads, but I cut him off.

“You know what? Stop saying my name like you know me,” I say. “You don't the first
thing
about me or my family. You don't know what
I've
been through. You want me to say I'm sorry Buck ran out on your sister?” I turn toward the car and shout, “Yeah, I'm sorry!” Tim cringes. “I know what that feels like,” I continue, my anger rising steadily. “But she's not
my
sister. And Buck's not my father. Not anymore. And if you're capable of coming all the way to my job just to tell me all this shit, I'm pretty damn sure you can escort Princess Leah of the Minivan down to Johns Hopkins to visit her beloved
daddy
before he croaks.” By the end of my rant, I'm out of breath, and
Tim looks so taken aback that I almost feel bad for yelling at him. Almost.

“He's not at Johns Hopkins,” Tim says quietly. “He's at some hospice. In California.”

I laugh bitterly. It figures Buck ended up three thousand miles away, as far as he could possibly get from us without hopping a continent. “Well, then you should take her out there, make a little vacation for yourselves,” I say. I gesture to the car, which it's just now dawning on me must be one of two or maybe even three they own, if the kids are allowed to take it out for joyrides. “I'm sure you can afford it.”

Tim nods down at the pavement. “Yeah, well. Maybe we will.”

“Great,” I say sarcastically by way of goodbye. I turn to walk back to the kitchen, but as my rage fades, a gnawing shame replaces it. I used to think all the time about meeting Buck's other daughter. I pictured how it might go down, but it was never anything close to this. Leah might have hidden in the car, but I didn't behave much better. And if there's one thing I pride myself on, it's being a good big sister. Someone who's not like my parents. Someone who doesn't walk away.

“Hey,” I say, looking back over my shoulder. “I'm sorry I lost my temper. I'm not having the best day.”

Tim nods and pulls a slip of paper out of his pocket. “I get it,” he says, “but if you change your mind, I think you guys could help each other.” He approaches me tentatively, with his hands up in mock surrender, and holds out the paper. “It's my number,” he explains. “And my receipt. I finally ordered a burrito.”

“Congratulations.” I take the slip and close my fist, crumpling it in my hand.

“It was the least I could do,” he says, offering me an apologetic half smile.

No, the least you could have done was leave me out of this
, I think. But I don't have to tell him that; I'm pretty sure my shouting got that point across. I make a show of putting the balled-up receipt into my pocket as some sort of peace offering—like I would even consider calling, like I need to add a dubious far-off inheritance and a mystery half sister with anxiety issues as bad as mine into the mix of what I'm dealing with right now. I step across the threshold into the steamy, grease-tinged air of the kitchen and try to regain my composure. I might not ever be able to close the door on Buck metaphorically, but at least right now I can let it slam literally, with a satisfying
thwack
, in Tim's face.

Tuesday Night, Part 2

Baltimore, MD

“What's wrong with you?” Denny asks on the car ride back to Aunt Sam's.

“Nothing,” I say. I turn up the radio, which is playing “Daddy's Home,” by Usher. Of course it is.

“You look weird,” Denny insists.

“That's just her face,” Cass says.

Fifteen feet ahead, the light turns yellow, and I have to make a split-second decision whether to speed up or slam on the brakes. I choose brakes. We screech to a halt.

I was seven when I found out Leah existed. It wasn't that Mom tried to keep it from me for a year, it was just that it took her that long to say it plainly instead of using grown-up
code I couldn't understand. “Knocked up” sounded violent, which confused me even more, because despite his many failings, Buck didn't hit us. (He was even big into Gandhi for a while and interpreted passive resistance as a good excuse not to get a job.) I didn't ask questions because back then, when it was still new, anything could make her crumble. I knew he'd left, and I knew he wasn't coming back, and I poured all of my anxiety into making sure I didn't do anything to make my mother cry.

One day, in late summer, we were sitting on the stoop in the early evening, trying to cool off, because somehow it was hotter in the house than outside no matter how many fans we had running. I remember I was blowing bubbles, barefoot, as Cass tried to catch them between her palms before they burst against the pavement. Mom was leaning against the house, talking to one of our neighbors and smoking a cigarette, when a four-year-old girl whizzed by, topless, on a scooter. Mom turned after her and stared.

“What is it?” the neighbor asked.

“Buck's other daughter would be about that age,” Mom said, shaking her head. “Every time I see one, I just . . .” She shuddered.

I had just released an enormous bubble when she said it and can still remember seeing the world reflected upside down in its shimmering skin as it bobbed lazily down toward the weeds lining the basement wall.

I got up the courage to ask her later, while I was brushing my teeth and she was struggling to give Cass her nightly injection. “Why did you tell Mrs. Wilson that Daddy has another daughter?”

“Because he does.” She finally landed the needle, and Cass howled.

“Is she my sister then?”

“No,” Mom said softly, kissing the top of Cass's head. “Don't worry about her. She's nobody.”

• • •

Back at the house, I take a much-needed shower while the kids watch one of those cooking-nightmare shows on TV. Aunt Sam's working a late shift, so I stand under the spray for fifteen minutes, ignoring the Post-It on the door reminding us that hot water isn't cheap. Despite her stinginess, though, the shower caddy is packed full of upscale shampoos, scrubs, and body washes (mostly for “mature skin,” or “color-treated hair,” but whatever—Devereaux rule #2: Free is free), and I use a tiny bit of everything, luxuriating in the sweet botanical smells as they wash down my body in a sudsy waterfall. What is it about water that's so healing? I remember reading in a magazine that some women have their babies in tubs and that even though it seems like they would drown, they know not to breathe until they break through the surface. Mom says when I was a toddler, I would lie on my back in the bath and let the water cover my face. She said it didn't scare me. She said I could smile and hold my breath at the same time—which is funny, because that's still what I do every single day.

I'm tugging some leggings over my still-damp thighs when I hear the TV go off and feel a pang of guilt. I've barely spoken to my siblings all day, aside from some grunts in the car. And while I know I need to tell them about what happened, I just don't know how. They've been through enough in the past forty-eight hours, and I can't stand seeing them hurt again.
Besides, I don't even know if Buck's really dying. All I have to go on is what Tim said, and he flat-out lied about Leah not being there with him. Before I do anything else, I should make sure that's true, at least.

I tiptoe across the hall into Aunt Sam's room, which I usually avoid both because I fear her wrath and because of the
Hoarders
-level foot-high layer of wrinkled clothes and romance paperbacks littering the floor. Luckily her laptop is partially visible under a towel on the unmade bed. Hunched and hovering, trying to keep my wet curls from dripping any evidence of my presence onto the duvet, I turn it on and open a Google search box.

“Buck Devereaux California,” I type quickly, keeping an ear open for the sound of a key in the front lock. No matches. Just a listing for Charles Buck in Georgia (work on your reading comprehension, Google), a Wikipedia entry about some old MLB player with our last name, and a reddit thread about the Milwaukee Bucks.

“Allen Devereaux California” gets one legitimate hit, but when I follow the White Pages link, it turns out that guy is sixty-four years old. Try again.

“Devereaux California dying” is a stretch and gives me nothing but unrelated obituaries and funeral homes. I even type in “hospice California,” thinking maybe I can call around to places and ask if he's there, but without a city to filter by, there are enough listings that I'd be glued to my phone for a month straight.

Then I remember what Tim said about finding me on Facebook, open a new window, and sign in to my account. Ironically, I only created it in the first place to search for Buck,
when I was twelve. Now I have a couple hundred “friends,” but no one my age really updates. The top story in my feed is from one of Mom's weird junkie pals/ex-babysitters named Violetta.

Buck didn't have a Facebook page five years ago, but I type his name into the search bar anyway, holding my breath. Nothing. I don't even bother looking under Allen, since he would sooner show up at our door with confetti and one of those giant TV checks for eleven years' worth of child support than identify himself by his given name on anything but government paperwork.

“Leah Devereaux,” I type instead, holding my breath. Three profiles pop up, but two are way too old, and the last, very promising one, a super cute black teen with glasses, lives in Ontario. “Tim Harper,” I try, and even though I get eight names this time, I recognize him immediately. First of all, he's listed as “Timothy,” which definitely fits with his wannabe-yuppie vibe, and he's the only one who's wearing something other than a wifebeater or suit and tie. I click on his photo, in which he's leaning on a wooden fence with some kind of livestock in the background, and scan his page. His posts and all but his profile and cover photo are private, but he's listed as a student at McDonogh, which is a swanky private school outside the city. And under “Family” there are three people: Jeff Harper, Karen Harper, and . . . Leah D. Harper. Bingo.

I click on my long-lost half sister's face, feeling what I know is a very modern sense of dread. A century ago, you could probably have a secret sibling and never know about it as long as they didn't live next door or write you some kind of confessional letter while they were dying of polio. Now the news
never turns off, the Internet is forever, and anyone under the age of seventy is probably in your face on at least four separate types of social media. I never looked for Leah because I didn't know her name until today, but a part of me knew it was only a matter of time before one of us found the other.

Immediately, two things become clear: one, that Leah D. Harper has abandoned her Facebook page—the last update is from 2013—and two, that she's . . . white. Really white. The-color-of-tracing-paper white, with blonde hair even lighter than Tim's. I don't know why this is such a shock, considering that we share the same sperm donor, who is also white, but it is. It shatters the image of her I've had in my head all these years. I always pictured her looking like me.

Leah is white because Karen, her mother and the woman Buck left us for, is also white. That much is obvious from Leah's publicly available cover photo, a family portrait set in front of a big (also white) clapboard house. Everyone is wearing pastel and smiling toothpaste-commercial smiles. Polly Devereaux would have approved. Maybe she even had a hand in it, offering her son something more than a new car this time in a final push to rid her family tree of its thorny branch of jungle fever.

My chest feels tight, and I realize I'm not breathing.
Stop it
, I think, as I coax the stale, ash-scented air back into my lungs. But it's too late; I'm desperate for more, needing to scratch this scab until it bleeds. I open a new browser window and pull up Instagram, searching for her name. There are more profiles to wade through this time, but now that I know what she looks like, I find her pretty quickly, under the username
leah__butterfly
. By a huge stroke of dumb luck and lax parental controls, the account is public, and I click through the most recent photos,
each one a cruel funhouse mirror image of a life I never stood a chance of having:
“mall trip with mom!!!!”
(Leah and Karen—a plump, pretty redhead—clinking milkshake glasses);
“<3 <3 <3 love my besties!!! xoxoxox”
(Leah, looking like a Barbie doll flanked by two swarthier friends, all three with matching pink streaks in their hair);
“spring break J J yessss finally lol!!!!!”
(fuchsia-painted toes anchoring a tropical beach panorama). Her social media presence on this site is the opposite of hiding in a car, and I suddenly realize that if I'm shocked she's white, she might be shocked I'm not. Tim certainly seemed surprised that I was me, at first. I cringe retroactively at his wide-eyed stare back at the Taco Bell counter.

When I was ten and Cass was six, during the scary times before Denny was conceived, we started making up stories about our third sister, taking turns imagining her out loud as we drifted off to sleep—where she lived (Florida), what she looked like (like us, but also like Beyoncé), the nonsensical adventures she had that always ended in the three of us joining forces to fight off villains and save the day. A few years later I found out that this storytelling technique—taking turns to craft something whole—is called exquisite corpse, which gave me chills not only because that's a creepy-ass game name but also because that's
exactly
what Leah was: a nameless, faceless, exquisite corpse that we felt safe animating only because we were convinced she would never come to life on her own. Until now.

I land on a photo labeled “bro time” with four different emoji. It's a selfie with Tim in which Leah's sticking out her tongue Miley Cyrus–style, but he thinks it's a normal photo. His lack of pretense, compared to her posturing, is weirdly
endearing.
But he's not your real brother
, I think, swallowing a sudden swell of jealousy, sharp as a shard of glass.
He's not your blood. I am.

“What are you doing?”

I spin around to find Cass standing in the doorway, hands shoved in the pockets of her hoodie, Mom's old purple sweatpants—a wearable security blanket we've passed back and forth over the years—almost covering her toes.

“You scared me,” I say, closing the laptop in a deliberately slow way that I hope comes off as casual. “I thought you were—”

“Auntie Dearest?” Cass deadpans. “Nah, don't worry, she's still at the hospital terrorizing sick people.”

I shake my head. “Ugh, can you imagine what it's like to be one of her patients?” And seamlessly, Cass juts out a hip and cocks an eyebrow, curling her lip into a surly sneer.

“What do you want, grandma? I just
changed
your damn bandage last
week
!” she barks in a near-perfect imitation of Aunt Sam's weary growl.

I start cracking up, and she saunters over waving a finger, not breaking character.

“You tell those bedsores ain't nobody got
time
for them, some of us need to go get our
chins
waxed!” (During one of their bitterer fights, Mom called Aunt Sam The Bearded Lady, and ever since that day we have jumped on every possible opportunity to bring it up.) We double over, trying not to let our cackling wake Denny.

“Stop it, I'm gonna die,” I gasp, my diaphragm spasming.

“Sorry,” Cass giggles. Within seconds, her features settle back into impenetrable neutrality, the sparkle in her eyes
fading to a bored stare. It's startling to watch, like getting a door slammed in your face. “When do you think we'll get out of here?” she asks.

“It'll be a while,” I say. “I have to save up.”

“What about the money from Yvonne?” Cass asks. “Didn't Denny give it to you?” I must look confused, because she sighs and mumbles, “The little thief.” She darts out of the bedroom and returns a minute later with a roll of bills held together by a hair elastic. “Here,” she says, holding it out. “She said not to give it to you until we left. I guess she thought you might not take it otherwise.”

I unwrap the cash slowly, gritting my teeth to keep from crying, and count out five twenty-dollar bills, three tens, a five, and twelve ones. With the $200 I emptied from my checking account this morning, this gives me enough to pay Aunt Sam plus $47 left for gas. It's not much of a cushion, but it's something. It'll buy us another couple of days, at least.

I'm so focused on the tallies in my head that I don't even notice Cass opening the computer, and by the time I look over, it's too late. Leah's dimpled smile (
Dimples. Those are Buck's. Cass has them, too, she just hasn't smiled in . . . what, years now?
) fills the screen, a sheaf of golden hair covering one of her giveaway green eyes, a pool of amber-flecked jade, just like mine.

“Who is that?” Cass asks, giving me an odd, suspicious look. She's perched on the bed, all taut angles, like a runner on the starting block.